Crossing the platform, he made his way to the first-class railway carriage. It was a wood-paneled compartment with carpeted floors and upholstered seats. He sat down in one near the window.
Another gentleman boarded shortly thereafter, taking the window seat opposite. A well-to-do businessman by the look of him. He was carrying an attaché case not dissimilar to the one Tom carried.
He gave Neville a measuring look. “Afternoon, sir.”
“Afternoon.”
“Going to London?”
“To…to Cambridge.”
It seemed as though the gentleman wanted to continue the conversation, but before he could ask anything more, another gentleman boarded. He was an elderly fellow, with a middle-aged lady on his arm who might have been either his wife or his daughter.
“Beg pardon,” he said to Neville. “Mind if we change seats? The wife and I prefer sitting together.”
“Of c-course.” Neville stood, moving to an empty seat on the other side of the carriage.
It wasn’t a window seat.
Neville’s jaw tightened. There would be nothing to distract him now. Nothing to keep his attention and prevent him from drifting off in his head.
He cursed himself for not remembering to bring a book. He had done, but the two volumes Lady Helena had given him were out of reach, packed away inside of his trunk.
“Obliged to you, sir,” the lady said.
Neville inclined his head in acknowledgment. Folding his arms, he leaned back in his seat.
The gentleman beside him drew out a newspaper and opened it. He glanced at Neville. “Had a nephew who attended Cambridge.”
Neville didn’t reply. There was no need. Unprompted, the fellow launched into a lengthy monologue on university education—the expense and practical use of it. From there he progressed to the subject of his health.
Across from them, the elderly gentleman had fallen asleep with his mouth open. His wife had produced a bag of knitting and was busily winding a skein of yarn. She made soft sounds of sympathy as the fellow elaborated on his many and varied ailments.
Some sixty miles later, the fellow disembarked. Another thirty miles, and the elderly man and his wife did as well. They were replaced by a pair of aged, and rather fashionable spinsters, carrying a cat in a hamper.
The two ladies made no attempt to engage him, seeming content to talk to each other in hushed tones, punctuated by loud addresses to their cat. “Hush, Jemmy!” and “Don’t fuss so!”
At last able to avail himself of the window seat, Neville spent the remainder of the day’s journey staring out the window. The rain-soaked scenery rolled by. He hardly noticed it. He saw only Clara. Heard her, too. The velvet soft intonation of her words resonating in his heart and his head.
I don’t regret any of it, you know.
And that kiss in his room above the stables! He could still feel her arms twined about his neck. Her lips on his, so warmly. So sweetly.
“I only wish we had more time together,” she’d said.
He knew now that no amount of time would be enough. Not hours. Not days. It would have to be more than that. It would have to be forever.
Would she want that, too?
He was roused from his thoughts at Basingstoke. On arriving at the station, the two ladies rose to disembark. They struggled with their hamper. “You there, sir,” the one in black taffeta said. “I say, do you mind lending your assistance with our Jemima?”
“Oh, yes,” the one in green velvet chimed in. She cracked open the lid of the hamper. “As you can see—”
“Don’t open the basket, sister!”
It was too late. The cat’s striped head popped out, along with her white front paws. She gave a tremendous leap.
Neville lunged forward and caught her midair.
“Merciful heavens!” Black Taffeta exclaimed.
“Jemima!” Green Velvet cried.
“I have her.” Neville stood, holding the squirming feline tight against his coat. “Open the…the…”
“The hamper? Yes, yes. Open it, sister.”
Neville deposited the cat safely back inside. The ladies closed the lid and latched it. He picked up the hamper under his arm. “Is your c-carriage…?” Nearby, he wanted to say, but the word wouldn’t come.
Fortunately, his meaning was clear enough.
The two women beamed up at him. “Our coachman awaits us near the cabstand,” Black Taffeta said as they followed him out onto the platform.
“Wait until we tell him how you rescued Jemima!” Green Velvet drew out a handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes. “Why, if not for you, she might have been flattened on the track!”
Neville saw them to their waiting carriage. When they were settled inside, he passed them the hamper, and then, amid a profusion of thanks, he tipped his hat and took his leave.
Returning to the platform, he found a bookseller’s stall and purchased a penny novel before boarding the train that would take him the rest of the way.
It was only as he sat down that he registered the decided tension in his muscles. He was out of his element. Out of his depth. He breathed deeply, steeling himself as the next group of passengers joined him in his compartment.
A family this time. Two elegant parents, and their equally elegant young daughter. The father stared at him with cold, unwelcoming eyes. As if he’d expected his family to have the compartment to themselves.
Neville returned the gentleman’s stare with a cold look of his own. One he’d seen Justin use on countless occasions. The implacable gaze of a ruthless cavalry captain.
Across from him, the gentleman hastily averted his gaze, turning his attention back to his small family.
Neville opened his book and began to read, even as his pulse pounded.
Tomorrow he would arrive in Cambridge. He would find Clara. And if he had to brave the fires of hell to get to her, so be it.
Cambridge, England
December 1860
Neville removed his hat before entering the Bell and Swan, shaking the snow from its brim. The jarvey at the railway station had recommended the tavern as the likeliest place a visitor to Cambridge might stay. However, when it came to finding Clara here, Neville was beginning to have his doubts. The place was chock full of guests, the majority of whom appeared to be gentlemen. Their voices drifted out from the dining room into the front of the tavern, some of them laughing and others shouting in spirited argument.
A drab older woman in homespun appeared at the counter to greet him. Behind her, a flight of rickety wooden stairs led to the floors above. “Hope you’re not looking for lodging, sir. We’re full up.”